Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series)

by Jason Stanley

  Nikky and her mom, Mrs. Harris, came out of the garage talking about the yards. Listening to them talk about lawn mowers and gardeners reminded her how this was the last time they would come here with this being her uncle's house. It made her a little homesick for what could never be again.

  G‑Baby sold the house to Mrs. Harris. Actually, Nikky bought it, and her mom would live in it. Mrs. Harris wanted to stay in the neighborhood where her work and friends were. She also needed to move out of her house where there were too many memories. With Nikky and her sister Little Taye growing up there, the house was full of joy. With Little Taye’s murder, the memories were too powerful for Mrs. Harris. Both she and Nikky needed to let the pain go. Buying G-Baby’s house was the answer.

  G‑Baby agreed to leave all the gardening tools with the house. With no yard and only a few potted plants in Houston, he didn’t need the tools.

  Baby‑Sister was heading back to Houston in the morning. G‑Baby would follow in a few days after he wrapped up with the movers.

  Mike Jr. pulled on her hand. “Auntie Michelle?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Can I have another hot‑dog?” her four-year-old nephew asked.

  “I don't know. Let's go find out.”

  “Mom said I could,” Mike Jr. said. “She's holding that lady’s baby and told me to ask you.” He looked up at her with big five-year-old eyes that held the belief one more hot dog would make the world a good place.

  Michelle kneeled down and gave him a big hug. “Let’s go see what Trevon has to offer.” He raced over to the grill where Trevon relaxed. Already cooked, burgers and hot dogs warmed on the cool end of the grill. A plate of juicy steaks waited for someone to place an order.

  “Hey little man, what'll it be? Hamburger, hot dog or steak?” Trevon asked.

  Mike Jr. carefully examined the plate of steaks then the burgers and hot dogs. “I want a hot dog,” he announced with the finality of a well‑considered decision.

  “One juicy hot dog. Here you go!” Trevon served the hot dog with a flourish. “Mmm, that smells as good as it looks.”

  Michelle kissed Trevon on the cheek. “Thanks, Chef.”

  Michelle settled Mike Jr. at the table with his hot dog. While pouring him a fresh glass of iced tea, Deja came up. “Whew, Miss Betty is killer on spoons!”

  “You’re out then?” Michelle asked.

  “Oh, I've been out. I was watching because it's fun to see her be so wild. She's always first as soon as anyone even starts to grab a spoon. She's scary fast. Good thing she isn't a gunslinger. We'd have to call her Miss Betty the Kid.”

  Deja dug around in the cooler for a cold beer. Using the neck of her beer bottle, she pointed across the yard. “Except for when she was showing her mom some stuff in the garage, Nikky's been over there talking to Scott most of the afternoon. What do you make of that?”

  “Nothing. Look around, how many White people do you see?”

  “Just Scott. I didn't think of that.”

  “Other than me, you and Nikky are the only people he really knows here. He's met G‑Baby and Baby‑Sister a few times, but not much more. The same thing for Trevon. We've been with somebody most of the day, so he's where he can be a part of the party and comfortable. I half expected him to cut‑out right after we ate. So far he seems to enjoy hanging out. Scott's okay.”

  “This is nice.” Deja waved her beer bottle at the yard full of people.

  “Yeah, good times,” Michelle said.

  “Good times.” Deja opened and poured her beer in a red plastic cup. “It sure is nice to breathe easy. These past couple months have been over the top with that stuff in Billings, then Tulsa. Not to mention whatever the hell went on down in Houston with you. Altogether, I'm glad to be back in good old Anglewatts where it’s warm, and I can get my swerve on when I want.”

  “Speaking of that, what's up with Matteo?”

  “Not much. He's fun. Doesn't push. I've been a little uneasy with more than a one night stand ever since my adventure into a full-time, long-term boyfriend. That rat bastard Jermaine turned out to be such colossal mess. But, yeah, it's going good.” Deja tilted her head toward Trevon. “How about you and our man at the grill, Mr. Lawyer man, Mr. Drug dealer, Mr. Trevon?”

  Michelle shrugged. “I don't know. For now, we're easy for each other. I have a lot of mixed feelings. I'm drawn to him like nobody ever before, but I can't let myself be fully with him. I'll never be able to settle down with a guy who sells drugs. I know, that's totally crazy. I've killed people for Christ sake. Now we've become interstate madams. But, in my heart, I know my brother was killed because of drugs.”

  “What about Daryl? He's a good guy.” Deja took a pull of her beer.

  Pausing to reflect on her answer, Michelle sipped her tea. “Nothing there. In fact, I think he's not into it even as much as I am. The sex has always been amazing, but we both knew it would never go anywhere. I have the feeling he's involved with someone.”

  “Oh, when did that happen?”

  “It's been kinda headed that way for a while. Nothing big, just you know, a girl can tell. That's okay. When one door closes, another opens. I hooked up with Matt after the show the other night. That might be an opening door.” Michelle flashed a private smile.

  “Matt with the blue eyes? That Matt?” Nikky asked.

  “He’s the one,” Michelle said.

  “Oooo. I’ve never done it with a White guy. How was it?” Deja grinned wide eyed, and held her hands up like a fisherman showing the size of his fish.

  “Kinda strange. What you’d expect looking at him.” Michelle laughed softly. “Every time when we kissed and I had my eyes closed, if I touched his hair, it surprised me. It feels so different.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine. But that’s not what I meant.” Deja bugged her eyes out and grinned wide. “How was it?”

  “You mean the sex? Wonderful. You know, Jacky Gleason good.”

  Deja rolled her eyes, “Old time TV?”

  “Super old. I Love Lucy, black and white old. Jacky Gleason always said, “To the moon Alice, to the moon.” That’s where Matt took me; to the moon!”

  “You and your old time TV. And, again, that wasn’t what I meant. Let me spell it out. Will we be meeting him good or one night stand good?”

  “It’s early, but we did spend a whole day and second night at my place. So, yeah, I think there’s a good shot at bringing him around.”

  Deja looked around. “See, it's a crazy wild world here in the hood. Nikky bought G‑Baby's house, and he and Baby‑Sister work for us. Who would ever believe that? And now you're taking your pick between Mr. Fine Lawyer Man and some a rich White guy. I gotta tell you, life is treating us right.”

  “You're right. I'm happier than I thought I ever would be after Michael was killed.” Michelle paused a moment taking in the fact that she was actually happy. “I'm satisfied; feel like we've made a real difference in the hood and for the people who work for us. But, there is a cloud around this silver lining.” Her smile faded.

  “Don't you mean, silver lining on a dark cloud.”

  “No, Things are good, there is no dark cloud. At the center of this huge relief from taking Jack‑Move and Galletti out, helping the women set up a future and good times, there's a small knot in my stomach. It was gone after I got my revenge for Michael’s murder. But it's creeping back. It worries me that I'm feeling it.”

  “Do you think something bad is coming?” Deja asked.

  “No. I'm being worried about nothing. Like that guy on the skinny horse with the pole chasing windmills, I'm chasing my imagination is all. This talk about dark clouds is silly. Let's go toast G‑Baby, Baby‑Sister, and PJ.

  Michelle tapped G‑Baby between rounds at the spoons table. When he looked up, she winked at him, “Can I ring your bell?”

  It was a family tradition that G‑Baby ring the hanging brass bell to call the kids in for dinner, or when someone had an important announcement or wanted to mak
e a toast. Respect always demanded he gives his permission before anyone rang his bell. “Be my guest.”

  Michelle pulled three times on the short rope attached to the bell's clangor. Three loud rings sounded; everyone looked up. She raised her glass. “Everyone, please raise a glass. I want to toast G‑Baby, Baby‑Sister, and PJ. They're headed out to new homes and new adventures. They will face wild women, happy customers, and bring in a new era promoting the well‑being of the working woman. After a very Hard Run, they are, the new hope.”

  Thank you for reading Hard Run, the fourth book in the Michelle Angelique series.

  In book one, Hard Revenge, Michelle killed her brother’s murderers. In book two, Hard Betrayal, she got even with the men in the hood who ordered her brother’s murder and survived Sugar’s betrayal. In book three, Hard Win, she took down the man who was behind it all. In book four, Hard Run, just when she thought she had a chance at a calmer if not truly normal life, things heated up and she had to face her own beliefs and free the women being held in prostitution slavery.

  It’s time Michelle, Deja, and Nikky catch a break and find, if not love, then some good sex and the chance to build the business that will help them and the women who work for them have a better life. Can it happen?

  Keep reading for a peek into Michelle’s next book, Hit Hard.

  HIT HARD

  *******************

  ONE: Bad News

  THICK LINEN NAPKINS matched the fine white tablecloth and the subdued lighting enhanced the quiet conversations in the exclusive steakhouse. If sixty dollars for a steak didn't keep the riffraff out, the maître d' swooped like a Maltese falcon on unsuspecting prey when anyone who didn't meet his immediate approval tried to enter his domain. It was a sure bet, if someone didn't belong, they didn't get in.

  Mr. Galletti and Tony Fallon sat in a booth with deep maroon leather seats. A few minutes earlier, Galletti had finished his dinner and was sipping a single malt scotch when Tony arrived.

  “I'm with Mr. Galletti. The man sitting at that booth right there.” Tony pointed at Galletti.

  “Just a moment, please,” the maître d' said. Without leaving his station, he turned around to look at Mr. Galletti and managed to step into the path, effectively blocking Tony from casually walking into the inner sanctum.

  “Yeah, it's okay, Bobby. He's with me,” Galletti said from his seat.

  With a thin smile isolated to his thin lips, Bobby the maître d' turned back to Tony and waved him in.

  A waiter met Tony at Galletti's table.

  “Sit down Tony.” Even with a simple invitation, Galletti’s voice growled, giving the invitation the sound of a command. “Tell the man what you're drinking.”

  “Scotch, single malt, neat.”

  Tony slid into the booth opposite Galletti. “What can I do for you, Mr. Galletti?”

  “I've got a special case. It needs to be handled outside of the usual way.”

  “Special, how so?”

  “I need to run a woman out of business. She’s based out in L.A., and recently set shop with a management team in Houston. I want her gone.” Galletti thumped the table with his middle finger, adding emphasis to his words.

  “Is she connected?”

  “No. She's new. Don't nobody really know her. She runs an independent shop.”

  “What’s her business?” Tony asked. “Women, drugs, money, what?”

  “Women and death.”

  The waiter put the drink on the table in front of Tony. “Would you like a water back with that, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Put it on my bill.” Galletti didn’t look up.

  “Thank you, sir.” The waiter’s presence evaporated.

  “Women and death, that's an unusual combination. Is she a professional shooter?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah. Ascia used her as a contractor. Said she was trained in Asia. No ninja shit, but a professional. She could go places others couldn't because she's a Black woman.”

  “But she's working women on the streets now so she's visible. It should be easy enough to kill her. I don't see why you need my services.”

  “That's the thing. She knows we're looking so stays outta sight and is damn near a ghost. I'd like to take her out but that hasn't worked so far. Now I need to do something personal to persuade her to get the fuck out of my city.” Galletti leaned in; his thick stubby finger loudly thumped the table and his voice rose.

  Tony paused long enough for everyone who had looked up at Galletti’s infraction of the unspoken rule of quiet to return to their own conversations. “I could take out the top people in her organization that are more visible.”

  “That shit don't work. Not with this broad. That was what started the whole mess. Ascia had her brother removed a few years back. She was a college kid, apparently didn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. It pissed her off and she disappeared for a couple years then came back and killed everyone involved.”

  “You said it was her brother,” Tony said. “We could take out people who aren't family.”

  Galletti waved to get the waiter's attention and held up two fingers. The waiter nodded and walked to the bar.

  “Same thing,” Galletti said. “Ascia sent some guy out to L.A. who offed one of her hookers. The broad went crazy. She killed Ascia and over twenty of his men. No, we don't kill her people. We do that, she goes underground and rips us.”

  “You sure she can do that?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah. She completed every assignment Ascia sent her on and has wiped out a couple of my groups for killing that one hooker. She has this stupid code about her people being killed. She takes it real personal. It annoys me.”

  “You said she has an operation in L.A. and is now in Houston,” Tony said. “Do you want her out of L.A. or just Houston?”

  “No. Leave her be in L.A. But, she’s also moved into Billings. I want her out of Billings and Houston.”

  “Billings, Montana?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “A Black woman doing business in Montana. She's gotta stand out like a sore thumb. That is if she's visible to the locals at all.”

  “It's worse.” Galletti leaned back and draped his arms over the top edges of the booth. “She's got another Black woman managing things with Russian women on the street. Used to be you could count on the Blacks and chinks staying with their own kind.”

  The waiter brought the fresh drinks and cleared the empty glasses.

  Galletti swirled the Scotch in his glass and watched Tony. Neither man spoke.

  “Did she take the Russian women from Ascia?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want them back?”

  “Sure, but that's not important.” Galletti shrugged with his hands. “I can buy more. The important thing is she’s gotta be convinced to take her ass back to L.A. where she belongs.”

  Tony sat still and silent for a minute. “I'll do some research and put a plan together. Call me in three days.” Tony slid out of the booth and walked away, leaving the second Scotch untouched on the table.

  .

  TWO: Work

  STROLLING ALONG THE SIDEWALK with a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, Michelle passed a Black woman in her early twenties. The woman wore jeans, brown leather boots, and a bright multicolored jacket zipped up high against a tan wool neck scarf. Her hair, a free blowing mass of afro‑ringlets, suggested mixed heritage. Michelle didn't make eye contact, didn't nod, didn't smile. The two women passed without any acknowledgment of each other. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was expected. Nothing was, in this case, nothing.

  Michelle liked Paris, but she didn’t like the French.

  Her time in Southeast Asia helped prepare her to be ignored. It was a small thing and it was a huge thing. The type of thing that could, would, piss off most American Blacks. Unlike Whites who basically don’t pay attention to each other in public or after the first hello at work, Blacks expected to acknowledge every stranger in public. A
t work, even if they crossed paths fifteen times a day, a nod, a smile, a murmured “Hey” always happened. It was part of the fabric of Black culture in America. Not so in Europe.

  Like the way people held up three fingers for the number three identified where they came from, paying attention to other Blacks was the type of thing that could cause her to stand out in a European, especially French, crowd. As an assassin on the job, standing out in any way very well might be the kiss of death. When on the job in France, Michelle practiced an indifference she thought of as “beating them to the ignore.”

  She remembered back to four years earlier when, for the first time, she saw another Black woman in Asia. She had been dead tired from spending over twenty‑four hours on planes, in airports, and in taxis with drivers that spoke about three words of English. She was also exhausted from having to control or hide her crying as she passed through customs and in public places like airport terminals during the layovers in L.A. and Seoul, Korea. It had been a horror of a trip punctuated by the fear of fleeing for her life from the men who murdered her brother. Only a few days earlier her brother had died in her arms after being shot in their home.

  That day, which felt so long ago, in Saigon, Vietnam, she had been sitting on a dirty cement bench outside the bus station. She was lonely, scared, and lost. It wasn't what she thought of as a bus station, just a small store with a counter on a crowded street. The busses pulled up by the curb, double parked, and people got on or off. Her bench was pushed against a wall next to a busy open-faced cafe. Assaulted by the stench of untreated waste water wafting up from an open grate a few feet from her seat, she didn't dare move, as there wasn't a free seat to be seen anywhere; not on that block anyway. In the emotional low point of the misery, loss, fear of the unknown, and in a sea of questions, she waited for the bus that would take her out of Saigon to Cambodia, then on to Thailand. Michelle looked around the mass of Vietnamese faces mixed with a few heat-flushed red cheeks of backpacking Europeans speaking languages she guessed as German or close.